


Signatures and Tokens

by a_q



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bureaucracy, Developing Relationship, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Missions, Other, Photographs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_q/pseuds/a_q
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce doesn't want to interfere with Clint's life, but if he needs help, he will be there.<br/>Even if its just for the paperwork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Signatures and Tokens

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by idea presented in [a prompt at Avengerkink](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/15292.html?thread=33210044#t33210044) about omegas detained in the pound.
> 
> Fill for my Kink Bingo card, for the square 'pictures'.

The building was a sand colored cube, crammed next to the police station like an ugly architectural growth. Bruce stared at it across the street, thinking how badly he didn't want to go there. Government property, chain link fence, parking lot with floodlights and camera surveillance. Not good. He reminded himself again that the SHIELD specialized on these kinds of things. The fake ID in his pocket was the top of the line, the system wouldn't know him.  
It would be fine. Nothing to it. 

Still, he would've rather done some other favor for Clint. 

Bruce waited for a lone car to pass before jogging over the street. He walked across the parking lot, straight to the front door. It was steel enforced security door, no handle, the intercom mounted in the wall next to it. There was an information panel, telling what button to push for what problem. He pushed 'Collect'. 

_“County Detainment. Please wait.”_

Bruce guessed that inside the receptionist stared at him from the security feed, right that moment. He tried not to fidget. There was a moment and the lock buzzed, the door swinging open. He went inside, and the neutralized air hit him like a brick. He had expected it, but still he just stood there for a moment, trying to get used to it. The door swooshed closed behind him. 

The waiting room was a narrow space, the reception desk filling most of it. There was a bench bolted to the floor in one side, and another steel forced door on the other. Bruce went to the desk, trying to forget that he was in a small, windowless and locked space. 

A young woman sat behind the bulletproof glass, an identification tag pinned on her blue cardigan. It had B with a slash through it, indicating a variable beta. She turned to look at him with a rehearsed smile. 

“Good morning. Your mates name and your ID, please.”

“Morning.” He took the ID card from his pocket, dropping it in the metal gutter that ran underneath the glass pane. The receptionist took it, just as Bruce realized that he didn't know what Clint's alias was. Natasha hadn't told him anything. She had only asked if he would do Clint a favor, giving him an earcom and ID. And he had agreed, without asking any questions. Stupid. 

The young woman glanced up from the keyboard. 

“Your mate's name, sir?”

He coughed, hoping Natasha would get the problem. 

His earcom cracked. 

“Clark. Beckett.” 

The young woman nodded, and turned back to the computer, typing for a moment. “Yes, he's here. He was brought in around midnight. Mr. Sullivan will go through the charges with you. You can sit down to wait.” 

“Can I see Clark?”

“He's eating.” The receptionist pushed his ID back to him through the slot. “He was hungry,” she added, her tone stiff. She didn't approve. Bruce took the card, nodding. Maybe he should've bring donuts, that might have looked better. But he didn't know what Clint liked. 

He sat on the bench and focused to wait, listening the quiet hiss of the air recycler. There were public service posters up on the beige wall. He stared at those, since there was nothing else to look at, except the receptionist. Bruce assumed she wouldn't approve staring. 

The posters were bright, the message positive. He studied the faces in the pictures. The people didn't look genuine to him. Something about their eyes, the way they grouped together. He had seen posters like these all around the world. Different languages, different pictures, but the same main point. Mind your family. Remember your responsibilities. Ask for help.

He had always wondered what function the posters had. If you didn't know that message from the start, no amount of glossy pictures would make any difference. But who was he to say? He sat here staring at them too, reading the info blurbs over and over. Maybe that was the point. Repetition. 

He glanced at the clock on the wall, behind the receptionist. It was five past six. Natasha had said Clint had to be at the airstrip by eight o'clock. One hour to drive. He hoped the paperwork wouldn't take long. 

The side door opened and middle-aged man came to the waiting room. He had the bland, smooth scent of a natural beta, and his name tag confirmed that. B inside a circle, possibly a requisition in his job. Bruce stood up.

“You are here for Mr. Beckett? I'm Mr. Sullivan, senior caseworker. Follow me, please.” 

He held the door open for him and Bruce walked past him to the empty hallway. Mr. Sullivan lead him down past closed doors to an office area with four desks placed in symmetric rows. The air wasn't as aggressively neutral here, tinted with the smell of coffee. Mr. Sullivan set behind one of the desks, pointing at the chair in front of it. Bruce sat down. 

“Let's see. Clark Beckett.” He pushed a filed in the middle of the desk and opened it with a practiced flip. “Yes, here we are. Vandalism, petty theft and grouping. He broke into a vending machine at the Main Street, in the company of two young omegas. They didn't make much damage, but the grouping is always taken seriously. The officers claimed them as detainees.”

“I understand,” Bruce said, though he didn't. Grouping wasn't a crime, as far as he knew. If omegas wanted to be together, they should. Stealing wasn't good, but if they had been hungry, well.  
Bruce had done the same, so he couldn't judge.

“Mr. Beckett became agitated. One of the officers in duty has alpha status, and despite their best efforts, the situation escalated into public indecency.” Mr. Sullivan took a stack of photos from the file and pushed them over the desk, nodding. “Here are the photographs from the detainment. The officers had minimal contact, as you can see.”

Since he expected him to take them, Bruce reached to slide the stack to his lap. The photographs were black and white, the paper low quality. He shuffled through them quickly, and then again, slower, when he realized what he was looking at. 

Clint was in every picture.

The pictures were from the same angle, the hood of the police car visible at the front. The camera must've been mounted inside the vehicle. In the first one the shutter had snapped when he pushed his jeans down his hips, his skin glowing eerily against the dark backdrop. In the next shot he moved to the left, his side and thigh in the frame. Next, a dash to the right, his chest twisted to the camera, old scars visible as darker hues. There was long, thin ones from some bladed weapon, rounder ones that might've been bullet wounds. Or burns. 

In the fourth picture the officers stood closer to him, Clint's back to the camera, his naked butt pressing against the hood of the car. The officers stood there hands spread, the shutter snapped in mid-gesture. They looked exasperated. 

It was obvious what Clint did: he toyed with them. If he had wanted to get away, he would have. Clint wouldn't be caught in one picture if he didn't want to, let alone this many. The last photograph was a full monty as the officers held his arms back, his back slightly arched. The officers wore latex gloves, sharp line of dark against the skin. Clint had turned his head to the right, saying something over his shoulder, the line of his throat visible. 

It didn't feel right to look at him like this, but it was difficult to stop. Bruce had never seen him naked. 

The bonding had been an accident, or so he had been told. He had no recollection of it, and the Other Guy wasn't exactly forthcoming with the issue. He had asked Clint, and he had assured him that he had done nothing to apologize for. Bruce doubted that, but he had chosen to believe Clint. 

Whole thing was meaningless anyway. Clint didn't need him. His job meant he was on suppressants and neutralizers constantly, and he could protect himself, no question. There had been some paperwork to fill, but that had been the end of it. He had to tell Betty of course, and she had been thrilled until she had realized that he wouldn't do anything about it. They had argued, but he wouldn't budge. It had been an accident, so he didn't have the right to impose on Clint's life.

Except this time. 

This Pound job was the first time Clint had asked for his help. Or not Clint, precisely. Natasha had asked, but they were so close that it was the same as Clint had asked himself.

Bruce flipped through the pictures one more time, the temptation too great. It was just paper, it didn't hurt anyone to have one last look. He went to the third picture, the shot of his chest and the scars, the skin frozen jagged shapes, how it would feel to trace them, with fingertips, or tongue... No.

Bruce pushed the photographs on the table like the paper had burned his fingers. Mr. Sullivan looked at him patiently, a pen ready.

“Do you agree?”

“Yes. I agree,” Bruce said hurriedly. “Officers had minimum contact. I have nothing to add.”

“Is there some reason your mate would act like this?” Mr. Sullivan asked, writing something down to the file. 

Bruce shifted in his chair. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what Clint's mission was. The pictures told him Clint was playing, but was he supposed to be concerned about this behavior? Amused? Angry? 

Probably not.

He coughed again, and Natasha was there, feeding him the answer.

“We had some personal problems?” 

Mr. Sullivan sniffed, like that much went without saying. Bruce sat up straighter. 

“We are dealing with it, privately. If there's nothing else, I want my mate. Now.” 

“Yes, of course. There's still the matter of a fine.”

“Fine?”

Mr. Sullivan took two slips from the file and pushed them over the desk. “This is Mr. Beckett's fine. Six hundred dollars in total. Your signature on the dotted line, on both copies.” 

He took another set and placed the slips over the first ones. “And this is yours. Failure to Care and Provide.”

Bruce reached for one paper, reading it through.

“Five thousand dollars?” 

“It's a standard amount. You can contest the fine in court, of course, but often the sum tends to rise in these cases.” Mr. Sullivan took a pen from a plastic cup and pushed it over the table to him. “Not for me to say, naturally. Best if you consult your lawyer. Please sign both copies.” 

“I don't have this much money with me,” Bruce said. In fact, he didn't have that amount anywhere. He recalled that he could have five US dollars in the bottom of his duffel bag, but he wouldn't swear on it. Clint had money of course, but Bruce could guess what Mr. Sullivan had to say if he told him that the omega would pay his fines. He would probably get another fine for Financial Imposition. 

“The payment options are explained in the back. There's a number you can call and ask for more information on the payment options.”

Bruce signed and Mr. Sullivan took the photographs, stacked them neatly and slipped them into a manila envelope, signing the corner and pushing the envelope back to him. 

“You may need those, if you decide to go in court.” Mr. Sullivan stood up, taking the forms he had signed. He signed them all as well, then slipped one of each fine in the file, before pushing two back to him. “I'll take you to the holding.”

Bruce took the slips and stuffed them into the envelope. He would give them all to Clint. SHIELD could pay them, it was their mission anyway. He stood up, and followed Mr. Sullivan back to the hallway. He lead him to a glass door, punching in the key code.

“I have to ask you not to bother other detainees,” Mr. Sullivan said and pushed the door open, letting him in first. 

The holding room had singular detainment cells one after another in two rows, facing each other. Five on the left, five on the right. The air smelled artificially empty, the temperature cool. The cells were small, metal bars between one cell to the next, but the doors were thick, clear plastic. Bruce figured it didn't matter if omegas could touch each other, but it would be problematic if any collecting alphas could reach through the bars and get a feel. 

Clint stood in the second box from the left. He leaned his shoulder against the scraped plastic, plate of food in his hand. He was talking to a young girl in the cell next to him. She was a nervous little thing, tapping her fingers against the bars. Across them, three boxes had occupants. Middle-aged man sleeping, jacket pulled over his shoulders. Then a woman who sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed and next to her, a teenage boy with a black and purple hair, grouching in the corner with a sullen look. 

All of them, except the man who slept, turned to look at him. 

The girl looked disappointed, the boy relieved and the woman closed her eyes again. Clint looked surprised for a split second, before he smiled brightly and pressed against the door. 

“Hey there darling,” he said. 

Bruce had no idea what kind of reply what expected on something like that. 

“Hi,” he said, the first thing that came to mind. Mr. Sullivan stared at him, frowning. 

“He doesn't look like anything you said.” The nervous girl squished herself against the door, trying to get a better look. “I thought he would be bigger.”

“He measures up, in all the right ways,” Clint said and winked. The girl covered her mouth to hide her laughter. The boy smirked shortly and slouched further down, staring at the floor. The woman opened her eyes and sighed, leaning her back against the cot bolted on the wall.

“Could you shut up? Some of us don't find your bullshitting as adorable as others,” she said. 

Clint shrugged and stuffed the remnants of the toast in his mouth. He left the empty plate on the floor and tapped the door, pointing at the lock.

Mr. Sullivan glanced at him and Bruce nodded. He went to Clint's cell and punched in the code. The door popped open, Clint pushed past the caseworker without a second look and draped over him. Bruce froze. He didn't know what to do. Clint smelled like something he knew but couldn't name, something familiar and pleasant. It tickled his memory. 

“I need a minute,” he whispered. “Act worried.”

“Why did you worried my like this,” Bruce said loudly. “I didn't know where you were, or what happened to you!”

The girl and the boy watched with great interest, but the woman rolled her eyes, thumping her feet against the plastic door. “Oh come on! Mr. Sullivan, let me out! I'm going to barf, I swear.”

“You know the rules, Maisie. I can't check you out on your own before noon,” Mr. Sullivan said. “I'm sorry, maybe you two could take your discussion to the waiting room?”

“I want to make sure my mate is fine,” Bruce said. He didn't know what Clint needed that minute for, but he patted gently Clint's arms and shoulders, like he was concerned that he had hurt himself, taking his time. 

His shirt was tight and made of thin material. Bruce found the ridge of the scar on his shoulder, the one he now knew started from his rib and squirmed up. Maybe he would've felt it anyway, but after seeing the picture, it jumped to him. He wished he had looked the photograph closer. Did the scar continue to his back, or did it end here, in his shoulder? He couldn't remember, and he couldn't find out. 

“You don't have to worry. I'm fine darling,” Clint said. 

Bruce wished he would stop saying that. It sounded like a sugarcoated insult. He let him go. 

The woman kicked the door, startling the young boy to his feet. “Stop the bullshit!” she yelled. "It's goddamn disgusting! You reek, get the fuck out!" 

“Calm down Maisie. They are leaving,” Mr. Sullivan said, pointing politely at the door. “Please.” 

The young girl pressed her palms against the door. “No, stay. I could watch you all day, you look so beautiful together.” 

“Of course they do,” the boy said, arms crossed “They are a natural pair. It's all sunshine and rainbows for them, isn't it?” 

Bruce wanted to tell him how wrong he was, that they were an undefined mess and that was putting it nicely. Clint tensed and pressed against him, tilting his head slightly to the door.

“Thank you for your patience, Mr. Sullivan,” Bruce said. “Everything is fine. We'll be leaving now.”

“Thanks for all the fun,” Clint quipped as Bruce led him out the room. “Bye youngsters!” 

Mr. Sullivan had a disapproving look but he said nothing, only lead them down to another hallway, and opened them a door that lead to the parking lot. 

“Have a good day, and stay out of trouble,” Mr. Sullivan said before closing the door behind them. 

“I don't think he knows you at all,” Bruce said lightly, taking a step back to get out of his personal space. Clint nodded, looking preoccupied. Bruce didn't want to say anything out of turn, so they walked across the parking lot in silence. There was more cars now and they waited to get across. Clint turned to left and Bruce walked with him. 

“I know you can't talk shop, but did you get everything you needed there?” Bruce asked, curiosity getting the best of him. 

“Yes. Their reactions were telling. Thanks for playing along.” Clint stopped, turning to look at him, pushing his hands to his pockets. His shirt was flimsy for this weather, but he didn't look cold. He stared at him in silence, like waiting for him to say something. 

“Have you been well?” Bruce asked, the only thing that came to mind. 

“I haven't clocked any med bay hours this week, can't complain,” Clint said. “And you? How's Betty?”

“She sends her regards,” Bruce said. “She would like to meet you, when you have time.”

“Busy week.”

“Yes. Of course. Well, here.” Bruce handed the envelope to him and he took it, turning it over in his hands. 

“What's this?”

“The photos from your arrest.”

Clint opened the envelope and slid the photos out, shuffling through them. He smirked and held up the one where he streaked to the left. 

“Nice, right?”

Bruce wasn't sure would it be worse to look at the photo, or not look at it. It was telling either way. He glanced it quick. “Yes. Looks like you had fun.”

Clint looked disappointed for a split second, the expression there and gone so quick that Bruce doubted he had seen right. Clint stuffed the photos back to the envelope, but kept the two fine slips. 

“How much did we rack up?”

“Six hundred for you, five thousand for me,” Bruce said. 

“Damn, only six hundred? I aimed higher.” He folded the bills and pushed them in his pocket. “I'll take care of it.” 

He handed the envelope back to him like it was no big deal. Bruce took it hesitantly. It would've been odd to say no, but he didn't want to make it look like he really wanted those photos. He didn't. He could live without them. The Other Guy smacked the barrier and Bruce stopped thinking about giving them back, clutching the envelope under his arm.

“Are you headed somewhere? Do you need a lift?” Clint asked. 

“Natasha got me a ride to the bus station two towns over. Thought I would head north for change,” Bruce said. “Calm and quiet there.”

A black car drove past them and stopped at further along the road, idling. 

“Well. This must be yours then,” Clint said, nodding at the car. “Thanks again. Take care.”

“You too.” 

Bruce walked to the car and sat in the back seat, his bag brought there for him. He glanced out. Clint stood on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets and staring up, lost in thought. The agent turned in the corner and he couldn't see him anymore. He leaned against backrest, pushing the envelope in his bag. 

\- - - 

Natasha stopped the car next to him, and Clint slid to the back seat, slamming the door shut. 

“Did you get it?” Natasha asked. 

“It's the girl. She let it slip when Bruce came,” Clint said. “Did you hear what she said? She could watch us all day? Shit, that made my skin crawl. She's the sect member, the boy is just tagalong. So the nest won't be here, the sect never hunts where they live. I copied her phone, that should get us something.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant,” Clint said, suddenly angry. “Have you lost it? Why the hell you brought Bruce here without telling me?” 

Natasha glanced at him through the rear view mirror. “Because you pine after him. And you are too stubborn to do anything about it. And I'm sick of watching it. Everyone is.”

“He doesn't want to act on the bond, and I'm not going to force him,” Clint said. “And you won't either. So stay out of it.”

Natasha shrugged and pulled the car to the traffic. “Fine. Then I'm sure you know it's a breach of protocol to let him keep the photos.”

“He wanted to keep them. What was I supposed to do?”

“Aww, you are lying, how adorable,” Natasha said and smiled. “You gave the envelope to him, because you want him to look at those photos every night and think only you and your cute ass and no one else. And I bet you 'accidentally' posed in some fetching manner in one of those pictures, just Bruce in mind. What was your original plan? You would've send him the pictures, as a joke? In accident? You would've made me do it? What?”

“Shut up,” he said and flicked the fine slips to the front seat. “And you can pay those.”

Natasha smirked, accelerating when the road cleared. “I didn't hear you deny it.” 

"I said shut it."

"Oh Clint, you are a true romantic," Natasha laughed, turning the radio on.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Signs and Tokens (of Affection Mix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1267621) by [inalasahl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inalasahl/pseuds/inalasahl)




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